


Of Things left Unspoken

by raiyana



Series: The Line of Curufinwë [5]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Dad!Fëanor, Death of Celebrimbor, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Halls of Mandos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-03
Updated: 2019-04-03
Packaged: 2020-01-04 05:23:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18337034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raiyana/pseuds/raiyana
Summary: The Halls of Mandos is both prison and place of healing... but not always.In some walls, there are cracks.And through cracks, enlightenment might find a way.





	Of Things left Unspoken

**Author's Note:**

> This is not a happy story.

The screaming woke the others, but it was Fëanor running past the barrier that kept each contained to his own cell that made Maedhros stand, demand answers in questions his father either did not hear or would not pause to answer.

It was _Curufin_ screaming.

He could see into his brother’s cell if he angled himself right, could see Curufin if _he_ stood just right, and sometimes that had been a comfort, a small act of rebellion against their prison walls.

He could not see him now, but he could _hear_.

 

“I know, son,” Fëanor’s deep bass intoned, in what – for him – was its most soothing, the voice that had held nightmares at bay for young elves, had calmed fears and relieved childhood hurts and Maedhros _resented_ hearing it now.

“Tyelpë!” Curufin screamed – a name Maedhros hadn’t heard in centuries, a name none of them had used since little Tyelperinquar had grown into Celebrimbor and chosen his own name – sobbing with more emotion than Maedhros had seen from him since the day Telperína perished. “TYELPË!”

“I know, Curvo,” Fëanor murmured, another name Maedhros hadn’t heard used in _so long_ , “I know.”

_What do you know?_

_What is happening to my nephew?_

It must be terrible for Tyelpë’s ósanwë to reach the Halls from Endorë, surely.

It was one of Námo’s little cruelties, letting some of what their left-behind kin and loved ones were doing filter through the protections of the place.

It must be horrible for the way Curvo was screaming, crying, _begging_.

He could not remember hearing Curufin _beg_ for anything… _ever_.

 

 

There was pain.

Pain and confusion and _fear_.

It was not his own, blasting through from the small part of him that was connected to his _son_ , calling back helplessly, knowing that Tyelpë would not hear, would not feel his presence, _protection_ , like he wished.

Curufin couldn’t even hear himself screaming, collapsing into strong arms that held him in a way that had always meant _comfort_.

He did not deserve comforting, but he sagged into Atar’s hold nonetheless, feeling knives of fire and steel bite into flesh that was not his own, heard laughter as cruel as Morgoth’s.

“Tyelpë!” he called, reaching blindly for one who was not there, one who was not _with him_.

 _My fault, my fault_.

_But it was better for him, safer for him, to make him leave us…_

_Or was it?_

Tyelpë didn’t feel safe, at all, and Curufin clawed at the unforgiving stone walls until strong hands pulled his own away, leaving bloody streaks on grey stone that swam in his vision.

“I’ve got you, I know,” Atar crooned, holding him tight. “I know how this feels – I’m so sorry Curvo, but we _can’t_ help him…”

There was grief there, older than Curufin rightly knew, desolation and furious helplessness that echoed through his own soul as Tyelpë sent another burst of agony from wherever he was.

 _He is afraid… but not for himself_ , Curufin realised in a moment of sudden clarity, _for **her**._

He had never seen Tyelpë’s child, but he felt another fear overtake him at the thought that Tyelpë might be feeling as he was in this moment because _she_ was being tortured also.

“I need- I-” _Let me go to him, please, let me help my son!_

He didn’t care that he was begging, screaming for Námo to do _something_ , didn’t care about anything but the ghost of Tyelpë’s injuries breaking out in bruises on his own skin as his fëa fought to reach him.

“I know…” Atto murmured, those strong fingers a point of reality that Curufin clung to.

“Atto…” he wept. “My son, _my son_ , Atto, I _can’t_ -”

“I know… I know how you’re feeling, I promise, I _understand,_ Curvo _._ ”

 

In his cell, Maedhros wept, realising exactly what Fëanor meant.

_You felt this… From me._

 

* * *

 

 

Curufin did not know how much time had passed when a new hand touched him, cupping his cheek.

“He is dead,” he whispered, staring up into green eyes gleaming with unshed tears. “It was for nothing.”

“Not nothing,” she whispered back, kneeling beside him. “And we shall see him again.”

He dared take her hand, hold to the feeling of her familiar fingers, slender and ink-stained as they should be.

“I am sorry…”

“Me too…”

Curufin was surprised when she leaned against him, her silver head resting against his shoulder like she had often done … _before_.

“Tyelpië…”

She squeezed his fingers, and she didn’t need to say the words for him to hear them.

 _I love you_.

He had not opened the connection to her in so long – and it only worked because she had come _here_ , to his prison, had left the light and peace of Aman _for him_ – but it felt like coming home, the first step on the path to healing what had been sundered by a blade and the dark waters of Alqualondë.

“I was there, too,” she whispered after along silence, as haunted by the experience as he had been ever since Tyelpë’s torment had suddenly _stopped_ resounding in his head.

Curufin uttered a wordless sound of sorrow, wrapping his arm around her shoulder and pressed his lips into her silver-pale hair.

“He was your son…. But he was mine, too,” she pointed out, her voice a little sharper, “did you think I would not hear his cry – that I would not seek to aid him?”

Curufin shook his head slowly.

“I… wished only that you had been spared that pain,” he offered hoarsely.

“I know,” she sighed. “I must leave you soon.” But she did not move and Curufin’s arms remained wrapped around her, his fëa lapping gently at the edges of hers, curious but shy, wondering at the change in her from the last time he had been touched so.

They sat together for a long time that would never be long enough, slowly relearning the contours of each other.

When she left, at last, he called to her. “Tyelperína…”

She turned, and that smile was the one he’d always thought of as _his_ smile.

“Thank you…” He had no need to say what for – she knew him well enough, still, to hear the unspoken words.

Closing his eyes, Curufin leaned back against the grey stone wall.

Her feet made no sound on the floor outside his cell.

 _They call me Nyarnien, now,_ she whispered across his soul, wry amusement surrounding the name, _but I shall always be Tyelperína for you… melmenya._

Curufin wept silently, tears running down his face from behind closed lids, her soft smile playing across his soul until the link was dimmed by the magicks of the Halls.

 


End file.
